


it's not a side effect of the champagne, i am thinking it must be love

by lostincostco



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drunk Katsuki Yuuri, Drunken Shenanigans, Humor, M/M, Time Travel, Victor just really really likes Taking Care of Yuuri okay, Victor's Do-Over of the GPF Gala, Yakov Did Not Sign Up For This, and why is this author into it, in today's instalment of, more like implied Time Travel, what's the opposite of a striptease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8894293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostincostco/pseuds/lostincostco
Summary: Somehow, Yuuri gets the distinct feeling he’s being punished for something.





	

“Be my coach, Victor～,” Yuuri Katsuki sways drunkenly into Victor Nikiforov's space with all the grace of a newborn piglet, and proceeds to cling to him, the fine wool of Victor’s trousers and his pristine waistcoat getting crushed up against bare skin still glistening with spilled champagne and sweat from a bout of vigorous pole-dancing.

It's been a wild evening, alright, and everyone’s thinking that Victor will probably brush him off, hands already coming up to steady the other man— 

Victor doesn't brush him off.

“Okay."

It takes a moment for Victor’s response to sink in amid all the din the crowd’s making, and when it finally does, it takes a while longer still for it to make sense. 

Slowly, the entire banquet hall falls silent, and even Yuuri, thoroughly sloshed after having chugged no less than 16 champagne flutes in the last hour, lovingly stirred further by his following performance of several suspiciously advanced pole moves and spins, appears to notice that something is amiss, if not quite what exactly that something is.  

He blinks up blearily at Victor, and his hands seem to unconsciously tighten their hold on the lapels of the suit jacket he’s latched onto, as if that’s enough to make Victor stay.

“Okay,” Victor repeats, lightly brushing a thumb across Yuuri’s sweaty cheek. “Starting today, I’m your coach.”

Then he says something in perfect Japanese, and it makes Yuuri flush to the roots of his hair. By the time Yuuri has enough brain cells firing to at least sputter in response, Victor has already set to work on deftly untying the necktie Yuuri has around his head, pocketing it away and muttering something that sounds a lot like _’unfashionable’_ and _‘should just burn it’_ , straightening Yuuri’s shirt a little before his clever fingers move on to slip the first button open. 

Someone from the gathered spectators squeaks, even though it’s nothing anyone attending hadn’t seen at the impromptu dance-off between Yuuri and Christophe, and another, much higher-pitched voice hisses a scandalised, “Don’t look, Sara!” 

Victor continues on to blithely unbutton Yuuri’s shirt, and neither of the two seems to notice the amount of shutter clicks that follow the progress of Victor’s hands. The two look like they’re in a world of their own. 

“V-Victor?” Yuuri’s voice sounds dazed and breathy. 

Victor leans in and, for a heart-stopping moment, everyone holds both their breaths and phones at the ready, but he merely smooths the shirt over Yuuri’s chest and shoulders with an undue amount of care.  

“How careless, Yuuri,” Victor pulls back to smile fondly at Yuuri, reaching to fix his collar as well. “You missed a button, so I redid them for you.” 

“O-oh,” Yuuri manages faintly. “I-I missed a... button?" he says uncertainly, sneaking a glance at Victor and, seeing him looking back, eyes the softest blue, nods with newfound conviction. "You smell really nice," Yuuri offers, then clamps his mouth shut.    

"I'm glad you think so, Yuuri," Victor beams, pleased and apparently unfazed by the non sequitur. 

Yuuri's eyes are transfixed on his smile, wide with wonder and only a little unfocused from the champagne.

“Oi, Victor!” Yuri Plisetsky hisses at last, unable to take any more of the soulful gazing between the two. His hands are flexing restlessly at his sides, like he wants to strangle either Victor or Yuuri, or maybe both. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! Did you get drunk off the champagne fumes from this pig!”

“ _I’m_ still wearing clothes, no?” Victor turns to him, amused. “Then I’m not drunk.”

The thought of Victor stripping along with Yuuri shuts Yuri up nicely, and he throws Victor a disgusted look. 

In the ensuing silence, Victor’s long fingers reach for Yuuri’s glasses next, and gently take them away to wipe at the smudged lenses with a pocket square that looks like it’s made of silk. Finally, he settles the frames back on the bridge of Yuuri’s nose delicately, the latter still looking at him in dumbstruck wonderment.

Now that his glasses aren’t askew and Victor’s kind of petted his hair into compliance, Yuuri looks less like a drunk salaryman having a midlife crisis, and more like an athlete in the middle of a risqué photoshoot for one of those dubious holiday calendars that everyone and their _babushka_ loves. 

The jury’s still out on whether that’s an image improvement or not. 

Victor’s expression says it is, but he’s clearly biased. He leans back to survey his work, frowning slightly when Yuuri shivers. It’s clearly Victor’s gaze at fault, and not the cold, but Victor’s already taking off his suit jacket and draping it around Yuuri’s shoulders, and he seems to notice that the ties of Yuuri’s shoes are unlaced as he does. Then, just like that, Victor Nikiforov kneels down in front of Yuuri Katsuki right there in the middle of the gala.

Yuuri’s still not wearing any pants.

A strangled, helpless noise escapes from Yuuri’s throat, and immediately his hands fly to his mouth to stifle it. He doesn't move away, though. Doesn't even look like the thought has crossed his mind at all.

“What the fuck is happening right now,” Yuri mumbles quietly but with a lot of feeling, looking thoroughly nonplussed and not unlike a kitten surprise-spritzed with water.

Or, in tonight’s case, with some of the copious amounts of champagne Yuuri spilled on everyone that didn't duck in time while he was twirling on the pole.  

Watching with avid interest from a few feet away, Christophe lets out a whistle. Fortunately or unfortunately, he's not the only one gathered around who looks like he's won a gold medal at the Olympics. 

“Wow,” Mila says, then proceeds to describe what’s going on to Sara in detail, since her brother’s been covering her eyes for the past 15 minutes and unsuccessfully trying to drag her away. 

“That sounds super sexy,” Sara says cheerfully, her words almost drowned out by the outraged, inarticulate sound her brother makes. Almost. “Take some pictures for me, okay?”

“On it,” Mila says, just as her phone flashes a _‘Storage Almost Full’_ message and she _tsk_ s, elbowing Yuri into giving up his for the cause. 

It’s a testament to how fazed poor little Yurochka is that he doesn’t call her any names. 

“Vitya!” Yakov shrieks, finally coming out of his own stupefied daze. “Have you lost your fool mind!" 

He reaches to yank Victor upright, but Victor levels him a look from where he’s on his knees at Yuuri’s feet, and finishes tying the latter’s shoes first, taking his time with it and having the audacity to enjoy it, too—his long fingers make careful loops, pulling the laces with grandiose movements, like what he is doing is more important than anything in the world. Like, given the choice, he’d still be right there, doing the exact same thing. He even goes so far as to pull up Yuuri’s socks.

Yuuri looks like he's about to pass out.

Conversely, Yakov also looks like’s about to pass out, though in his case from sheer outrage.

Finally, after a torturous amount of time during which no one dares to even breathe, Victor gets up in one fluid motion, brushing all along Yuuri’s front as he does so, and puts an arm around him as if to steady himself, like he is the one who needs help balancing, and not Yuuri, whose depth perception is currently non-existent due to champagne, and whose world Victor’s turned upside-down himself.

Unless Victor's off balance because he's recently hit his head, which would—that would actually be a relief.

“Have you recently hit your head?” Yakov asks, a hint of actual hope sneaking its way into his gruff tone.

“Hmm,” Victor hums, forefinger tapping at his chin as if in contemplation. His eyes crinkle in a smile that doesn't bode well for his coach, “No, but I did fall.” 

“You fell?” Yakov demands, completely forgetting all about Yuuri Katsuki for one single, blessed moment, even though he’s right there in Victor’s arms.

“ _Da,_ ” Victor smiles disarmingly, and throws the hand he isn’t holding onto Yuuri with up in the air, following the affirmation grandly with: “In love!”

Then he laughs; a free, joyful sound that’s like goddamn bells chiming, and spins both himself and Yuuri in a loose circle, as if his happiness is too much to contain standing still.

The entire room collectively shakes off their stupor and bursts into shocked murmurs.

Victor still hasn't let go of Yuuri, who's looking from Victor to the crowd owlishly, even more dazed after the impromptu spinning. It appears as if all higher brain function has left him, which is… completely understandable, actually.

“Victor,” Christophe edges towards him, not even trying for discrete. Too late for that, anyway. “Not that this isn’t amazing, but—You know you can’t both be a coach and skate at the same time, right?“

“Think, Vitenka! You'd be a terrible coach. Is this like the time you got a dog the exact same day I told you not to, because I swear—“

“Yakov," Victor is still smiling, though now there's an edge of the ice he’s so fond of in it. “Makkachin is amazing, and I know you know it. I’ve seen you two playing fetch.”

“This is still a terrible idea,” Yakov grumbles, but takes one look at Victor's face and settles down with a sigh, one of his hands coming up to rub at his temple instead.  

“Well, then. Yuuri,” the winter in Victor's smile melts away like spring snow in a warm breeze when he turns to the confused, half-naked skater in his arms. “Shall we go?"

“Go?” Yuuri echoes slowly, brows furrowed in concentration. “Y’mean… t’gether?” his words slur, but he seems to immediately warm up to the suggestion once he gets it, expression unfurling in a blinding smile.

 _“Of course,”_ Victor purrs, his warm breath tickling Yuuri’s ear. _“Didn't you just invite me to Hasetsu? And people say_ I’m _forgetful,”_ he continues on in Japanese, like these are things he just does now: speaking new languages, seducing fellow drunken competitors into being their coach, _laughing_. 

Yuuri’s drunken brain seems to finally gain some vague awareness that this really is happening, because his mouth falls open, and his eyes grow impossibly big, his already flushed face getting redder. _“That’s—“_

“Let's go to the hot springs together,” Victor adds cheerfully. “Hot water does wonders for flexibility, no?”

Someone in the crowd gasps and _oops_ , Victor might have just said that last part in English. He smiles at the room at large, expression guileless and pure as the driven snow. 

“Victor Nikiforov! Will you really quit skating?” someone shouts, trying to get closer to them to record his response. “Are you giving up on getting gold?” 

“Gold, huh?” Victor says thoughtfully. He’s not looking at the crowd but at his own hand holding onto Yuuri’s. “Gold sounds nice.” 

And apparently that’s all he has to say, because he starts to gently and unsubtly herd Yuuri towards the exit next.

“ _Aspetta!_ Wait, wait, wait,” a harried Celestino wades through the crowd, throwing a hand between Victor and Yuuri just as they’re about to reach the lobby. 

He has Yuuri’s pants with him.

“ _Chao chao._ ”

“ _Sì_ _?_ ” Celestino turns to Victor by habit, too used to the nickname. “What is it? What's going on?"

“No,” Victor beams charmingly, plucking Yuuri’s pants from Celestino and putting a hand on the small of Yuuri’s back to smoothly steer him outside. “I meant ‘bye’.”

 

⛸⛸⛸

 

The morning sun is stabbing Yuuri’s eyes even through his eyelids, and he attempts to turn around and hide under his blanket to avoid the light. Except he can’t. Turn around, that is. Yuuri stops wriggling and tries to figure out what’s going on without opening his eyes. 

There’s the blanket, which is very warm. Then, laid out over the blanket, there’s something else. 

No, _someone_.

Yuuri’s eyes snap open.

The first thing he sees is blurry silver hair. Then the person it belongs to, who is indeed lying on top of Yuuri’s blanket, pinning Yuuri to the bed. 

It’s Victor Nikiforov.

Yuuri’s thoughts grind to a halt.

“Mm,” Victor stirs, blinking open his beautiful eyes. “Good morning, Yuuri.”

His smile is more blinding than the sun, and Yuuri feels torn between looking away to shield his eyes from the brightness, and staring at the sight forever. Then it clicks. It’s embarrassing as hell, but Yuuri’s had plenty of dreams that start like this. He nods to himself; this must be one of _those_ then. It all makes sense now. Maybe reality’s finally giving him a break after— 

“I’ve been thinking about your next program as your coach,” Victor says, severely deviating from the usual script.

…Coach? _Yuuri’s_? And what’s more, gold? 

Victor keeps talking and it may as well be in Russian, because Yuuri doesn’t understand a thing he’s saying. In fact, every next word out of Victor’s beautiful mouth is making less and less sense to Yuuri. His head is pounding viciously, too, to make matters worse.

“Stop talking,” Yuuri says, finally.

Victor stops talking, and shifts to fully look at Yuuri. He is wearing a suit for some reason, but this is no time to be distracted by trivial things.

“Don’t tell me you forgot again, Yuuri,” Victor sighs just as Yuuri’s contemplating his next move, and one of his hands trails down along Yuuri’s body.

Yuuri sucks in a surprised breath, but Victor just rummages around his own pockets for his phone. He scrolls to _Photos_ with practiced quickness when he finds it. Then he proceeds to tell Yuuri all about what happened last night, in detail, complete with photographic evidence. 

“I did that…?” Yuuri says faintly. He thunks his head on the headboard and looks to the ceiling, then sneaks a glance at Victor’s beatific smile. “Of course I did that,” he finally mutters in defeat. 

“You’d rather not have me as your coach?” Victor asks casually, the sharp glint of emotion in his eyes at odds with his nonchalant tone.

“I do! I want you,” Yuuri responds immediately, almost headbutting Victor in his haste before he realizes just how close they are. And where they are, which is on a bed. Also, what he's just declared, loudly. “Please get off,” Yuuri adds timidly, cheeks burning.

“That’s the plan,” Victor smiles, affecting innocence. 

“Victor!” Yuuri groans when his new coach— _coach!_ —chuckles at Yuuri’s predicament before rolling over to the side, seemingly set on brushing all along Yuuri’s body as he does.

Somehow, Yuuri gets the distinct feeling he’s being punished for something. 

“Yuuri,” Victor calls after him when Yuuri finally manages to shakily get out of the bed. He’s still luxuriously laid out on the sheets, the morning light filtering in from the window making his silver hair shine brighter, and his eyes seem bluer than the ocean in Hasetsu. “That looks uncomfortable,” Victor says at last, eyes trailing down Yuuri’s body. 

It takes a second for Yuuri to realize he doesn’t have anything but his underwear on.

Yuuri flees.

**Author's Note:**

>  _chao_ sounds like _ciao_ , and while the latter can mean both ‘hello’ and ‘bye’ in italian, in russian _chao_ means just ‘bye’ lmao
> 
> i should be studying rn but i just,,,,, i love yoi with the force of a thousand quadruple flip jumps, okay _(:3」∠)_  
> anyway, come cry with me on [tumblr](http://nibelstrife.tumblr.com) this wednesday when Kubo-sensei deals us the finishing move～


End file.
